


Huckleberry

by Lyndsaybones



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 22:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10259681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyndsaybones/pseuds/Lyndsaybones
Summary: Season 8 Baby Fluff





	

He feels a little awkward standing outside her door. There was a time when his showing up unannounced was just an expectation. At least it was on his part. These days, though…he has no idea where he stands with her.

He knocks tentatively and waits. He hears shuffling and quiet murmuring. The door swings open and pushes her hair back in a puff of air. A smile breaks out across his face and he has to fight back a hearty chuckle. She looks, in a word, adorable.

He rarely gets to see her truly dressed down, but has been enchanted by it every time. Today, however, takes the cake. She is clad in white t shirt and a pair of overalls so large she’s had to cuff them at the ankles.

She flashes him a reciprocal, albeit tentative smile.

“What?” she asks, a little anxiety creeping into voice.

He reaches out and runs a finger on the soft denim strap on her shoulder.

“This is a new look. You headed down to a fishing hole or something?”

She smiles again and stands aside to let him in. “I’m painting.”

“Yeah? Trying a new hobby while you’re on leave?” he asks as he meanders into her living room.

“No. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”

“You might, it just may not be yours,” he says as he points at her midsection.

“I suppose that’s true,” she says as palms the swell of her belly. “So what brings you by, Mulder?”

I miss you, he thinks. “I thought maybe you’d wanna go grab lunch,” he says.

“Oh, I would. But I gotta get this done.”

“Get what done?”

“The baby’s room,” she says as she presses her palms into the small of her back.

“Wait, that’s what you’re painting?”

“Yeah. What did you think I was painting, a fruit basket?” she says with a little edge.

“Should you be doing that?”

He almost instantly regrets saying it. The way her eyebrows lift and her chin dips, he knows he’s about to get ripped if he doesn’t back peddle and quickly.

“I mean because of the fumes and the chemicals and everything,” he adds, hands raised.

“The window’s open. I’ll be fine,” she says flatly.

“I could help,” he offers.

Her eyes narrow and she’s clearly sizing him up, examining his intentions with the same rigor she would a dead body.

“It’s gonna take the whole day. I haven’t even picked a color.”

He peels out of his leather jacket and tosses it over the back of her couch.

“I’ve got nothing but time, Scully,” he says, clapping his hands on her shoulders. “And nowhere I’d rather spend it.”

She looks at it like she’s not quite sure if that was meant to be a compliment or not.

“Okay then,” she says with a shrug, a subtle ‘you win.’

“Good,” he says, releasing her and clasping his hands together.

She picks up his discarded jacket and hangs it on one of the tidy hooks by her door. He follows her into the hallway, taking note of the way her white socks never fully leave the floor as she shuffles along.

He can’t get over how different she is now. The belly, of course, is the biggest change. But there are other things, lots of them. The way her hair curls at the ends where it hits her collar and the way her lips now always look full, like she’s just been properly kissed, which are things that he loves.There’s a part he doesn’t like so much, a weary sadness that hangs with her like the cross around her neck. It takes the light out of her skin and stops a smile at her mouth rather than letting it rise up to her cheeks and crinkle her eyes. He’d like to think he’s responsible for the first two and not so much the last one, but he isn’t naive. He knows the initial distance he put between them has left her sunburned. His attempts at restitution have thus far been met with her genuine but all too professional thanks.

He gets it. She’s been through the worst of the worst and just when she thought it was all over, that all her prayers had been answered, the best he could manage was, 

“I’m happy for you.” She’s protecting herself and he doesn’t blame her one bit.

The room, when they reach it, is filled only with sunlight and painting supplies, lots of them. He counts up the cans of paint and appraises the size of the room.

“Ah, how many coats were you planning on?” he asks gently. There are eight cans stacked against the wall. Enough to paint her entire apartment.

“Just two,” she says. “But there were four colors I liked so I bought two gallons of each and I’ll just take back the ones I don’t use.”

She’s already edged every piece of trim in blue painter’s tape, covered the outlets and switches and laid down a heavy canvas drop cloth on the hardwood floor.  
So they set about getting a coat of primer on, filling the time with idle chit chat. Football he didn’t get to see, an election he missed, stories of her little brother passing through town like a typhoon. There’s a spot between his shoulder blades that is starting to feel tight and an invisible spot in his chest is that is wide open and yet to heal. 

He’s missed so much.

If she is feeling any discomfort regarding his prolonged absence, she’s not showing it and hasn’t but for that brief moment when she brought him home the first time this side of death. A rare glimpse at vulnerable Scully and at the time, he didn’t even have eyes to see her.

They finish the primer in an hour or so. Her hair has gone curly around the edges and her cheeks are flushed pink.

“Hungry?” she asks as she sets her roller down.

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“I’ll go make some sandwiches,” she says as she heads for the door. She pauses and the sound she makes catches his attention. There is a quick intake of breath, her shoulders draw up, one hand clinging to the door jamb, the other to her belly.

“Scully?” The long handle of his roller slips from his hand and drops to the drop cloth with a muffled thwack.

“I’m okay,” she huffs. “It’s a Braxton Hicks.”

One hand drifts to her shoulder, the other to her hip.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she says as her shoulders drop and her breathing evens out. “I’m sure.”

“I’ll make sandwiches. You go put your feet up,” he says as he guides her into the hall, his hands still anchored to her.

“It’s really not a big deal,” she says as they enter the living room. “I have them all the time.”

The notion that something that happens to her all the time is also something he’d not heard of until a week ago further justifies her trepidation with him. He knows that.

“Yeah, I was paying attention during that class, too. You want a BLT or grilled cheese?” he asks as he walks her to the couch.

“Really Mulder, I’m fine,” she protests.

“Chips or salad?” he asks as he helps her get her feet up on the coffee table. He can feel how puffy her feet and ankles have gotten already. He has to remind himself not to fret over her, though. She doesn’t like it, even when she needs it.

“Chips,” she sighs, resignation clear in her voice.

“BLT?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

They eat quietly, he cleans up and they head back into the bedroom to pick a color. He rolls small patch of each shade onto the stark white wall and watches her. She is cupping her right elbow in her left hand and pressing her index finger against the cupid’s bow of her lips.

“Whaddya think?” he asks.

“I’m between ‘Huckleberry’ and ‘Butter Cream.’”

He studies the four colors and tries to assess which is which, wondering if all of them are named for food.

“Soooooo, the yellow and the blue?”

“Yeah, I dunno, Mulder. What do you think?”

“Uhhhhhhh, I like the blue, personally.”

He watches her again, as she chews on the inside of her cheek and narrows her eyes.

“You don’t think it’s too bright?” she asks.

“A kid’s room should be bright, shouldn’t it?” he reasons.

“I think I like the Butter Cream,” she says as she presses her lips together, making her chin dimple like an orange peel. She looks at him as if he is the only one who can reassure her on this.

“I think it’s perfect.”

“You said you liked the blue,” she said, brow knitted.

“Scully, if you tell me we’re painting this room in neon pink zebra print, that’s what we’re doing.”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, now resting her arms over her belly.

“Okay, worst case scenario: we do the whole room and you hate it, we can just repaint it. I’ll paint it four times if you want me to.”

She looks at him, almost surprised. Her right eyebrow tilts, wrinkling her brow. Her eyes go wide and wet and she sucks in a shaky breath.

“Yellow,” she says softly, looking back at the wall. “Let’s do yellow.”

He wants to pull her into his arms and apologize for what a complete schmuck he’s been. He doesn’t though.

He nods and cracks open the paint can instead. She grabs a paintbrush and sets about cutting in around the trim. He runs the wide roller up and down, up and down. She is working on the next wall, painting around the window. She is up on her tiptoes, trying to get as high as she can. Her belly pushes up against the wall and paint smears across the front of her overalls.

“Damn it,” she sighs, looking down.

Even if he could help laughing, he would not have attempted to stop himself. It’s just too damn cute.Her lips flutter as she blows out an exasperated breath.

“You think that’s funny? You should have seen when I knocked over a whole pitcher of iced tea at my mother’s with this,” she says as she quirks a melancholy little smile.

“If the overalls and pitcher are the only casualties ten days away from your due date, that ain’t half bad,” he says as he continues up and down the wall.

“I guess so.”

They finish the first coat and head back to the living room. Her feet have gone from a little puffy to very swollen. He coaxes her onto the couch again and sticks a pillow under her ankles.

“I think you’re done, Scully,” he says as he hands her a glass of ice water.

“I think you may be right,” she concedes, clearly tired.

“Where’s the crib?” he asks he glances around. “I’ll go put it together before I do the second coat.”

She takes a sip of water and sets the glass on a coaster.

“Don’t have one,” she says simply.

He is deeply perplexed. Scully has a meal calendar on her fridge. She has to do lists for her to do lists. She likes to know what’s coming next, she’s a consummate planner. The idea that she’s gotten this far into the pregnancy without having everything ready is very un-Scully.

“Why not?” he asks as he sits on the coffee table.

“I wanted to be sure,” she says as she stares down at her belly.

“Of what?”

Her eyes water and it is abundantly clear that she is fighting tears.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of coming home to a finished nursery and not having…” she trails off, her breath hitching. She covers her face and muffles the sound of a sob.

“Oh Scully,” he says mournfully, leaning forward wrapping himself around her.

She doesn’t speak, she just cries, pulling her hands away from her face and clinging to him desperately.

“Don’t cry, Scully. Everything is going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” she whimpers. “You don’t know how many times I thought I was losing the only thing I had left,” She is quiet for a long moment, like she’s holding her breath. “You weren’t here,” she says, pulling away from him.

He feels that one like a bomb going off between his lungs. She’s right and he knows it. These attempts he’s made, while very well-intentioned, have been shallow at best. A doll, a lamaze class, they just aren’t enough. He’s back but he’s not yet found his way back to her, to them. None of his efforts have been equal to the terrifyingly powerful love he feels or the creeping dread over the notion of losing her.

“I want to be now,” he says, cupping her face in his hands. “I want this.”

He presses a tentative hand over the upper swell of her belly. She is radiating a gentle warmth and the baby is shifting and thumping under his palm.The sobbing starts anew and both of her hands grasp and cover his. He leans forward and kisses her belly.

“We’re bringing this baby home, Scully,” he says, laying another kiss next to their hands. “Home to a perfect yellow room.”

She coughs out something between a sob and a laugh.

“What?” he asks.

“I think I like the blue better,” she sniffles as she swipes the tears away from her eyes.

He laughs and tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

“A blue room, then. We’ll bring the baby home to a blue room.”


End file.
